


Nights are long, longing for you to come home

by heavenisalibrary



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 11:31:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5204165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavenisalibrary/pseuds/heavenisalibrary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Excuse you,” she says, huffing a bit now that she’s decided to be irritated rather than threatened. She drops her hand from her chest to brush off her dress.</p><p>“I was going to say excuse me,” he says, tugging at the bottom of his blazer. “If you’d just be patient.” He looks up at her with a glare, and something about his expression — the worry lines creasing his forehead, the way his frown seems to set deep into the corners of his lips, the flat expression in his eyes — grabs at her hearts and pulls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nights are long, longing for you to come home

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't really speculation about the Christmas special at ALL, this is just me reading all of those FREAKING interviews about how she's not gonna know him right away and I'm just dying ok I'm DYING

The winter holidays always feel strange to her, now that so much time separates her from her parents and her husband. She can’t think about it too much or she starts to get maudlin, so after the Doctor’s appearances in her life slow more and more until they stop altogether, and after she can no longer risk the paradoxes and spend the holidays in New York, she makes sure has a party to go to. Something big and loud and fabulous with an open bar so she hasn’t the time or presence of mind to feel lonely or sad. This year, she heads to a planet specifically dedicated to Christmas in a gorgeous new dress, piling her hair onto her head and making sure she looks her absolute best, ensuring there’ll be no shortage of handsome men and beautiful women looking for her attention, to further guarantee that it feels more like a holiday and less like another wake for the lives and loves she’s lost.

She gives her head a shake and smooths her hands down her dress, focusing on the twinkling lights strung up between the picturesque buildings and the carols wafting into the street from fire-lit windows and the way the air smells of evergreen and mulled wine. Walking down the street and taking in the storybook scenery, she feels lighter with every step she takes toward the party.

 River’s about a block away when someone bumps into her. She’s quick to right herself and even quicker to draw a hand to her chest, ostensibly to cover her heart, but actually to keep her hand near the knife she has stashed in her dress in case she’s going to need it. She takes in the man before her: tall, grumpy, grey-haired, odd red velvet blazer. He’s barely looking at her, his hands fussing to brush himself off, and she quickly ascertains that he’s not a threat. Just an idiot.

“Excuse you,” she says, huffing a bit now that she’s decided to be irritated rather than threatened. She drops her hand from her chest to brush off her dress.

“I was  _going_  to say excuse me,” he says, tugging at the bottom of his blazer. “If you’d just be  _patient.”_ He looks up at her with a glare, and something about his expression — the worry lines creasing his forehead, the way his frown seems to set deep into the corners of his lips, the flat expression in his eyes — grabs at her hearts and pulls.

He must see something in her expression, too, because his jaw drops, and just as quickly as she’d noted it, his weary expression changes to one of shock. He blinks owlishly her, taking a step back. River knows she looks good, but  _honestly_. That reaction was a bit of overkill. 

“I’m not good with patience,” she says, choosing to ignore his, frankly, hilarious expression.

“No, women like you usually aren’t,” he says.

She wings a brow. “Women like me?”

“Gorgeous,” he supplies immediately, recovering from whatever had surprised him and stepping back toward her. He presses up against her personal space and while part of her wants to shove him so he stumbles back over the curb, she finds herself standing still as she looks up at him with a bit of a smirk. “You look like someone who generally doesn’t have to wait to get what she wants.”

“Ah, yes,” she says, rolling her eyes and deciding it’s best to leave. She can’t deny he’s got a bit of  _something_  about him that draws her in, but she’s not looking for company, and she’s going to be late to the party. “That’s me. Just another pretty face. Cheers.”

She starts to walk away, but he’s taller, all limbs, and catches up with her quickly, falling into step with her at her side.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, “that was just a pick up line.”

“Oh, well thank you for being forthright,” she says, feeling utterly baffled by the strange man practically jogging at her side as she hurries along. “Mind if I do the same?”

“By all means.”

“Sod off,” she says.

He laughs, and god, she’s so  _irritated_  by how much the sound warms her, and so caught off guard by it that she feels herself smirking and slowing her step.  _Bugger_.

“Headed to a holiday party?”

“Yes,” she says. “Invite only.”

He grabs her arm, and while generally she’s inclined to use any man who grabs her unasked’s weight against him and throw him to the ground, she just stops, turning to face him. He’s close to her again, so close, and she finds herself swaying toward him as he looks down at her. The expression on his face is so  _fond_  that she sighs, and thinks again, more emphatically:  _bugger_.

“So invite me,” he says, smiling. He gives her wrist a gentle tug, his fingers soft against her skin as his thumb rubs small circles over her pulse point, and she stutter-steps toward him, their chests nearly touching.

She wants to tell him to sod off again. She wants to flip his grip and grab his arm and hurl him into the road, perhaps in the roasted chestnut cart they’d just past — that’d be quite funny. She wants to slap him for his presumptuousness, she wants to tell him that she’s going to meet someone else, she wants to tell him she’s married, even though she's not really sure that she is, anymore. But she’d spent the whole evening trying to ignore the fact that she’s so very tired of being alone, and something about his stern, weathered face keeps her from looking away, and she could swoon at the way he looks at her, like he’s never seen something so precious, and if the flare of heat that trails down her spine at the simple touch of his thumb to her inner wrist is any indication, she  _is_  in dire need of companionship, or  _companionship,_ as it were.

“Come,” she says, finally.

“Are you propositioning me?”

“Am I —? I’m asking you to a  _party_ ,” she says, feeling uncharacteristically flustered at his arch expression. Usually that was  _her_  line.

“So you’re asking me on a date.”

“You’re asking  _me_  on a date,” she says.

“That’s not what it sounded like,” he says.

“That’s what it sounded like to me.”

“And you couldn’t possibly be wrong,” he says.

She realizes that they’re standing even closer now, and that the weird inability to turn him away has turned into a pang of longing — a bit of an ache, really, settling low in her body and deeper still. She doesn't let herself fall into him completely, and the effort it takes to hold back from just crashing into this  _perfect stranger_ is nearly exhausting.

"I'm rarely wrong," she says. He sways toward her, his face so near to hers that she can smell the sweet mint on his breath, and it's something familiar, it's the sort of breath mint the Doctor had always favored when he bothered, and it briefly occurs to her that maybe — but no, he hadn't had the regenerations left. Her eyes flutter, and she's not sure if it's because he's stepped into her so that they're pressed up against each other, his nose brushing her cheek, or if it's the pang of nostalgia at the thought of her husband.

"I believe it," he says. "In that case, do you want to go to a party?"

"It's  _my_ party," she murmurs. She closes her eyes at his lips brush her ear. Oh, if anybody saw her in this moment — River Song, fierce and fearless, never one to be pushed around or coaxed into doing anything she didn't want to do, practically putty in this irritatingly presumptuous stranger's hands. 

"Yeah, but you invited me."

"This conversation is ridiculous," she says, smiling into the soft, crimson fabric of his blazer as she relaxes against him. His hand slides up from her wrist to grip her hand, and his other arm wraps around her, resting tentatively on the small of her back. They're practically dancing on a busy sidewalk, and she doesn't even care.

"Shut me up then," he says, pulling back slightly and ducking down so that she has to look at him. His mouth is so close to hers, and her eyes drop to his lips, even as she scolds herself.  _What_ is she  _doing_? He pulls her closer still, and she lets him, but when he dips his head toward hers she resist, smiling thinly. She wants to, terribly badly, which isn't typical for her. If she were a different person she might think bumping into this stranger was kismet, and that this was meant to be — if only for the night — but she isn't and never has been much of a romantic, given the frequently agonizing timey-wimey state of her marriage, and so she sighs, giving her head a shake.

"I can't," she says.

"Oh?"

"Married, you see," she says on an exhale. She doesn't typically hold herself back from the odd sexual encounter when she feels the need and desire, especially now that her nights with the Doctor seem to be nearing their end. She isn't a _saint_. But she doesn't remember the last time — or she does, and it was with _him_ , and she doesn't want to think about it — she felt this pull to somebody, and so  _this_ feels like betrayal, if she pushes it any further.

Oddly, he doesn't move back from her at all, just holds her more tightly, a grin spreading across his face that looks so ill-suited to how difficult he's been from the moment they'd run into each other that she has to resist the urge to laugh.

"Fair enough," he says, releasing her from whatever spell he'd had her under, and instead gripping her hand tightly in his and starting to walk again. "Still. A Christmas party never killed anybody."

She throws her head back and laughs, giving his hand a squeeze. "You've never been to a party with  _me_."

 

 

He drags her to a restaurant before they even reach the party, hesitating before he gives the hostess a name when he probably realizes they haven't exchanged names. She says her name is Melody Malone, he gives her some line about mystery being exciting and demurs on giving her his own, which she doesn't take issue with since she lied, anyway. He pulls her chair out for her and tries to hide that he's looking down her dress as she helps her scoot her chair in, and when she calls him out on it, he looks so delighted by her frankness that she forgets to be annoyed. 

He fusses over the menu so long that she takes it from him and orders for them both, and the rest of the meal passes without major event, but it's — it's lovely. The conversation is brisk and silly and exactly what she's been missing, lately, and if she lets him play footsie with her under the table, well. She's all too aware that the Doctor isn't around to see it.

When they leave, she's warm with the wine and feel a sort of contentedness in someone else's company that she hasn't felt in an achingly long time. She lets him hold her hand again, and she bumps her shoulder against his as they walk to the party. When he drapes his arm over her shoulder and tucks her into his side, she tells herself that it's freezing out, and she hasn't got any sleeves, and it's everything to do with practicality and nothing to do with how she increasingly wants to shove this nameless stranger into the nearest alleyway and find out exactly what that filthy, frowning mouth of his can do.

 

 

They arrive at the party quite late, and things are already in full swing. Everyone's just a bit drunk — which makes her feel justified in tossing back a couple of drinks in quick succession, both to meet the mood and to prevent the growing unease with the situation she's found herself in. They've been careful in sharing personal details, but she  _likes_ this stranger. She likes him quite a lot. He's quick and a bit mad and funny and sharp, and even though she can't or won't talk about her life or her past and he won't even give her his name, they find things to talk about. Of course, the alcohol does very little to ease the situation — it just makes her stand closer to him, just makes her more willing when he presses a hand to the small of her back and leads her to the dance floor, just makes her laugh louder as he twirls her and more at peace with the way his fingers dig into her like he can't get her close enough when the music gets slow.

It must be hours later when they finally stop dancing and she tangles her fingers with his to guide him from the dance floor. Her feet are a bit sore in her heels, and so she pauses in a less busy doorway, leaning against the wall as he stands in front of her, poking fun as she reaches down to adjust her shoe.

"You try to dance in heels," she says.

"I have," he says, "don't you re — really expect otherwise?"

She raises a brow at his stumble but just shakes her head in amusement, reaching a hand out to steady herself on his shoulder as she fixes her other shoe. When she's done, she stands upright, only to find that he's back in her personal space, covering the hand she has resting on her shoulder with his and backing her into the wall. His expression takes her breath away, and she shouldn't like it, but she kind of does, a bit.

"Thank you," he says, "for taking me to your party."

"Of course," she says, "no one should be alone for the holidays." She cringes inwardly at the twinge of sadness that creeps into her words, and his face falls abruptly. 

He reaches a hand up to brush against her cheek, pressing his body up against hers, and she lets him. 

"No," he says, "no one should. I'm sorry it's been so long, River."

"It's not your fault," she says, trying not to think about the way she wraps her arms around his neck to hold him closer. It's nothing, really. She just likes the feel of a man against her, and maybe him in particular, but she doesn't have to tell anyone that. 

"It is, a bit," he says, "after all, it took me this long to find you."

"It's not like you've been looking for a complete stranger," she asks with a laugh. And then, abruptly, she backtracks a few seconds in the conversation and her head starts to spin. She stands up straighter. "I told you my name was Melody."

Her hands slide down from his shoulders to curl tightly in his blazer, in no small part to hold her upright. It  _can't_ be. She looks down, because it  _must_ be, but she can hardly stand the thought, and she can hardly stand the thought that she's wrong, and just assuming because she wants — she wants —

"I'm talking too much," he says. He reaches a hand down beneath her chin to tilt her head up toward him, and when she meets his eyes she's  _horrified_ to find herself biting back tears. "Shut me up?" he asks, for the second time that night.

"I'm married," she says weakly.

"Funny," he says. "Me too."

"Do you often spend Christmas away from your wife?" she asks, but she feels like she's hearing her own voice from outside her body. 

"Never if I can help it," he says. "That's why I'm here."

River Song was raised to be a weapon, and grew to be a very efficient one. She's got more degrees than just about anybody and knows as much about the worlds that are and that were and will be as any Time Lord, and she's been a queen and an empress and a warrior and a professor and a doctor and a daughter and a detective and too many other things to list, and never once in any of those experiences has she ever felt as close to fainting as she does in that moment. Her throat runs dry.

She has so many questions — he shouldn't  _exist_. There shouldn't  _be_ another face, for him, and one that she's never met before at that. She also should've noticed his two hearts right away, but now that she's paying attention she can see through the perception filter he's wearing and she slides her hands down his jacket to cover his hearts with her hands, feeling them jump beneath his skin, and she  _really_ might actually, properly faint. Instead, she closes her eyes and leans heavily against the doorway, and just barely manages:

"And what sort of time do you call this?"

"Too much," he says, his voice soft. "I thought you were... I thought  _we_ were..."

He covers her hand with his where it rests on his chest, and she realizes for the first time that evening that he's wearing a wedding ring. It's all too much and it's exactly what she's been dreaming of but refused to let herself really hope for, and it explains why she'd been all but drooling over such a stupid face all night, and she just really,  _truly_ doesn't know what to do.

"River, are you — I'm sorry if I startled you, I just didn't know if you'd still —"

"Now you can shut up," she says abruptly, falling forward into him and leaning up onto her toes to finally,  _finally_ kiss him.

His arms wrap tightly around her and he clutches her to him so tightly she forgets to breathe. His mouth isn't as soft this go, his lips a bit thinner, and the way he kisses has more of an edge to it — it takes her a moment to find a rhythm again, but as soon as she does, it's like coming home. She feels his hearts beating up against hers where their chests touch, and he sighs into her mouth, his breath hitching halfway through as though he's trying to keep his breathing under control — which, given that she's felt on the verge of a nervous breakdown for the past few minutes, she understands. He pulls back from her, loosening his grip around her waist, and she realizes that he'd been lifting her off of the ground when she clumsily makes contact with the floor once more. She doesn't let go of him, not completely, and she's not sure if she'll ever be able to again. 

He's grinning at her so broadly that she can see, now,  _her_ Doctor in even this face. He cups her face in his hands, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs as she grins back at him, and tells herself that she's just going to have to spend enough time with this regeneration that he becomes her Doctor, too. She covers his hands where they rest on either side of her face, feeling like her hearts are going to burst.

"Hello, sweetie," she says, and even after so long, it feels so familiar.

He smiles even wider.


End file.
